Page 10 of My Viscount’s Madness

Chapter 10

Tea Time

T he teacups gleamed in perfect formation, bone china catching the light as Marguerite arranged them with precise movements. Under her direction, the village hall, usually reserved for parish meetings and the occasional lecture, had transformed into something approaching elegance.

“The cakes arrived from Mrs. Porter,” Betty announced, setting down a covered tray. “Though she mentioned Lord Edgecombe’s sister has been asking questions about the guest list.”

“Of course she has.” Marguerite adjusted a flower arrangement with steady fingers. “One can hardly expect Miss Edgecombe to miss an opportunity for mischief.”

“And his lordship?” Betty’s voice dropped lower. “Will he attend?”

The question hung in the air like perfume—too strong to ignore, too delicate to dismiss. Marguerite concentrated on placing each teacup and saucer, allowing the familiar ritual to ground her thoughts.

“Lord Guildford makes his own choices.”

“Even if his choices reflect poorly on you?”

“Especially then.” Marguerite stepped back to survey her work. The tables formed elegant islands in the transformed space. Not a fork nor napkin dared stray from its appointed place. “Though I believe he may surprise us all today.”

The door opened, admitting her mother and sister. Dinah’s dark eyes swept the room, cataloging details with her usual sharp attention.

“Well,” the Marchioness said, fingers worrying at her handkerchief, “it looks…quite refined. Though perhaps the flower arrangements might—”

“The arrangements are perfect.” Marguerite moved to adjust a chair. “As is everything else.”

“Except for your betrothed’s attendance,” Dinah observed. “Or have you received word?”

“I haven’t asked for any.” Marguerite straightened a tablecloth that required no straightening. “Lord Guildford knows of the event. His presence or absence will be his choice.”

“A choice that reflects on us all.” Unease shaped her mother’s tone. “After the ball—”

“After the ball, society continued turning precisely as it always has.” Marguerite took her mother’s restless hands in her own. “This tea will raise funds for the orphanage. Its success depends on generosity, not gossip.”

“Such optimism.” Dinah’s tone held more observation than criticism. “Though I wonder if you truly believe that.”

Before Marguerite could respond, the first guests began to arrive. Lady Morton swept in, her elaborate bonnet threatening the integrity of the doorframe, followed by a cluster of local matrons whose eagerness leaked through proper facades.

“My dear,” Lady Morton clasped Marguerite’s hands, “how lovely everything looks. However, I was quite surprised to receive an invitation. Given recent…events.”

“I can’t imagine why.” She withdrew her hand. “Surely my engagement hasn’t affected my ability to organize a charitable function?”

“Of course not.” Lady Morton’s fan fluttered like a nervous bird. “Though one does wonder about Lord Guildford’s involvement. Or lack thereof.”

“My betrothed supports my charitable endeavors completely.” The lie slipped past her lips with ease. His estate demands much of his attention.”

“Does it?” Miss Edgecombe’s voice carried across the growing crowd. “How fortunate he finds time to ride alone at all hours yet cannot spare a moment for proper society.”

Marguerite turned to find her adversary dressed in a shade of purple that did nothing for her complexion. “Miss Edgecombe. I wasn’t aware you held such interest in my betrothed’s schedule.”

“One can hardly help but notice his…peculiarities.” The other woman’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Though perhaps you find them charming?”

“I find honesty charming.” Marguerite met her gaze steadily. “A quality your brother might consider cultivating.”

Color rose in Miss Edgecombe’s cheeks. “At least my brother appears in public without requiring elaborate excuses.”

“No,” a familiar voice interrupted, “he merely appears where he isn’t invited.”

Marguerite turned to find Lord Guildford standing in the doorway, his evening clothes immaculate and his posture rigid. Their eyes met across the room, and understanding flashed between one heartbeat and the next.

“Lord Guildford.” Miss Edgecombe replied first. “How…unexpected.”

“Is it?” He said with his back to the wall and his eyes on the exits, maintaining that distance that spoke of constant vigilance. When he reached Marguerite’s side, his hand settled at the small of her back—warm, steady, grounding. “I wasn’t aware my attendance at my betrothed’s charity event required explanation.”

Whispers rippled through the gathering. Marguerite felt the tremor in his fingers as they pressed against her spine and noted how he positioned himself to keep the entire room in view.

“You came,” she said softly.

His lips barely moved as he replied, “Did you doubt I would?”

“Yes.” The honesty escaped before she could catch it.

Something flickered in his eyes—pain or understanding, she couldn’t quite tell. His fingers pressed more firmly against her back, and she suddenly realized that he drew strength from the contact as much as he offered it.

“The tea begins shortly,” she said, pitching her voice for his ears alone. “If you need to—”

“I’m staying.” His jaw set in familiar stubborn lines. “Unless you’d prefer otherwise?”

“Never.” Emotion colored her tone despite herself.

Their gazes held, and for a moment, the crowd faded away. Then Lady Morton’s voice cut through their private communion, and reality’s chains dragged them back to earth. The world beyond themselves demanded attention.

But his hand remained at her back, steady and warm, as they turned to face the gathering together.

The tea service proceeded. Marguerite’s dress shimmered as she wove through the gathering, pausing here to laugh at a jest and there to murmur a greeting. Lord Guildford remained close, his presence both comforting and constraining.

“Tell me, Lord Guildford,” Lady Morton called across the table, “how do you find domestic life after your…adventures abroad?”

His fingers tightened around his teacup. “Considerably less perilous, Madam.”

“Are you quite certain?” Miss Edgecombe’s smile dripped honey-coated venom. “Some might say marriage presents its own battlefield.”

“Some,” Marguerite interjected, “might do better to contemplate their own circumstances rather than speculate about others’.”

A ripple of poorly concealed amusement passed through the gathering. Miss Edgecombe’s complexion deepened to match her unfortunate choice of gown.

“I merely meant—”

“We know precisely what you meant.” Lord Guildford’s words held the keen blade that Marguerite had come to recognize. “Though perhaps we might turn our attention to the actual purpose of this gathering?”

His words redirected conversation toward the orphanage’s needs, yet Marguerite noticed how his breathing remained measured, how his gaze constantly swept the room’s perimeter.

“You needn’t stay,” she murmured as she passed him with a fresh pot of tea.

“Yes,” he replied quietly, “I do.”

Their eyes met in brief understanding before duty pulled her away. She found herself tracking his movements as she attended to her guests.

Lord Edgecombe’s arrival cast a pall over the gathering. He positioned himself near the donation box, his presence a silent reminder of debts and obligations that pressed against Marguerite’s composure like too-tight stays.

“Your betrothed seems rather ill at ease,” he observed as Marguerite approached with the latest round of refreshments. “Though I suppose large gatherings must prove…challenging for him.”

“Don’t talk to my betrothed, Edgecombe,” Lord Guildford’s voice cut through the rising tension,

Edgecombe’s face darkened. “Bold words from a man who can barely face society.”

“Yet here I stand.” Lord Guildford moved to Marguerite’s side, close enough that their shoulders brushed. “While you skulk about making insinuations that do you no credit.”

“No credit?” Edgecombe’s comment drew attention from nearby tables. “Shall we discuss credit, My Lord? Or perhaps we might speak of debt instead? I understand Lord Ash—”

“Understands exactly what manner of man you are.” Marguerite’s voice emerged steady despite her racing heart. “As do we all.”

The gathering had gone silent, attention fixed on their trio. Marguerite felt Lord Guildford’s tension radiating from him in waves, yet he remained beside her, his personal ghosts yielded to present necessity.

“Come, brother.” Miss Edgecombe appeared at Lord Edgecombe’s elbow. “Surely we have more pressing engagements?”

Gossip followed their exit like perfume. Marguerite turned to find Lord Guildford’s complexion ashen, his hands trembling slightly at his sides.

“Walk with me,” she said softly. “The gardens need inspection.”

He followed her into the relative peace of the small courtyard. Once hidden from prying eyes, his posture crumbled slightly.

“That was well done,” she said, watching as order fought chaos for dominance.

“Was it?” His laugh carried edge rather than joy. “I nearly—” He broke off, pressing his palms against the rough stone wall.

“Nearly what?” She stepped closer. “Defended me? Faced down a man who deserves far worse than sharp words?”

“You don’t understand.” His voice roughened. “What he said about your father—”

“Was nothing I haven’t already discovered for myself.” She touched his arm lightly. “Though I admit, watching you face down your demons for my sake was…enlightening.”

He turned to face her, and for a moment, the air stopped in her throat, an involuntary response to his proximity. “Not for your sake.”

“No?”

“For ours.”

Margaret stared at him quietly, and neither of them spoke. After a moment, she withdrew her hand.

“We should return,” she said. “Before Lady Morton sends out a search party.”

His lips curved slightly. “Heaven forbid we provide more fodder for gossip.”

“I believe,” she replied, “we’ve given them quite enough to discuss for one afternoon.”

They returned to find the tea service concluding, the donation box pleasantly full, and society’s attention already turned to fresh targets for speculation.

Something had shifted between them—some understanding that went deeper than their arrangement. In facing down Edgecombe together, they had discovered a truth neither had expected.

Their greatest strength lay not in the lies they told society but in the truths they were beginning to acknowledge to themselves.